They asked me to leave the church.
My mother did her best to try and raise me in the southern baptist church, something I balked at strongly. The church she took me to was a bunch of stuffy people who talked quietly in whispers and sang quietly. Sunday school was torture for me. My mind was constantly questioning things, and the Sunday school teachers did not like questions, they wanted blind belief and faith.
I got into trouble several times in that church, either from asking questions like “How did Jesus not break surface tension when he walked on water?” And the unthinkable question “What is the pastor selling out of the trunk of his car after services on Sunday?” You couldn’t buy alcohol on Sunday in South Texas, but the pastor had it for the ‘special’ members of the church.
More than once my mother was counseled on needing to teach me how to behave and be a good Baptist. Lord knows she tried.
Then the big event happened. Mom needed to attend a conference out of town and I was to stay with my paternal grandparents while she was away. My grandmother had a bad heart for as long as I can remember. She would throw a heart attack about once a year, and she always recovered. But she and Papa-T as I called him went to a Methodist church that did not allow children. So they had a problem, what to do with me?
My grandmother had a housekeeper who had been with the family for years. Her name was Joyce Richardson, but we all called her Doy. She helped raise my dad and she helped raise me too. So as the topic of what to do with the grandson was being discussed, Doy said she would be happy to take me to her Baptist church. My grandmother was relived and agreed immediately.
Sunday came and I rode to the church with Doy and her husband. Doy by the way was a wonderful black woman and went to an all black revival church. Nobody thought twice about this little white boy coming to worship with them and I was welcomed with open arms. When the service started there was singing. Loud singing by everyone, there was dancing in the aisles and lots of people being moved by the music shouting “Praise Jesus!” Every few seconds. For a kid my age THIS is what I wanted church to be like. I asked Doy if I could join in and she smiled at me and said, “Whatever the spirit moves you to do, you can do.” That was all I needed to hear. I had a blast.
Mom came home and things returned to normal. Then the fateful Sunday rolled around again. Stuffy people in a stuffy church and no fun. As I sat there ruminating about the situation it hit me. I know what is missing. Nobody wants to go first! I had a solution, and I waited for my moment.
When the pastor got to part of his sermon where he was invoking some fire and brimstone and he slammed his fist on the podium, I saw my opening. I jumped up, waved my hands over my head and screamed “Sing it reverend!” And ran dancing into the aisle.
Now I am not sure that any of the old women in the church actually fainted or had a heart attack, but I am pretty sure my mother came as close as anyone was going to get. She jumped up, grabbed me and ran me out of the church in tears saying that she had never been so embarrassed in her life. I did not sit for a while after getting home and her dusting my bottom in anger.
The pastor called mom in to see him and he told her point blank that I was not welcome in the church until she could find a way to teach me how to be a proper Baptist.
I never set foot in that church again.
While I am on this topic I want to say that Doy was a sweet and wonderful woman who showed and taught me so many things as a child. 
She saw that I had something troubling me and asked what was wrong. I explained to her what I saw the other kids doing and saying and I was having trouble understanding it. She sighed heavily, set the iron aside and sat down across the table from me. She then patiently explained what racism was and how wrong it was. Until that very moment in time I did not realize she was black. I never saw her with anything but love and admiration.
She has come into my memories many times over the years and each time I miss her deeply. I don’t think I ever truly thanked her for all she did for me. But I think she knew. She was so wise and kind am I am so very lucky to have known her.